


Geralt sleeps all across the Continent and everything is fine

by Cicuta_virosa



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And sharing our great himbo Witcher is a sign of friendship!, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Everything is sex and nothing hurts, F/M, Fisting, Geralt bottoms for everyone who asks, Geralt has lovers all across the Continent, Geralt likes to bottom and there is no shame in it, Knotting, M/M, Nobody ever attacked the keep, Oral Sex, Orgy, Sex Toys, Sharing, Slut Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Spanking, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Vesemir (The Witcher), Vesemir fucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicuta_virosa/pseuds/Cicuta_virosa
Summary: Geralt was always the most eager to please and he sees no shame in offering pleasure and taking it.Across the Continent, he kills monsters, he saves people and he shares pleasure and the world is better for it!
Relationships: Aiden/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Ermion | Mousesack/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Filavandrel aén Fidhál/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Freixenet/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Nivellen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vesemir, Rennes / Geralt of Rivia, Toruviel aep Sihiel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 19
Kudos: 198





	1. Vesemir. Eskel and Lambert

Geralt whines around his mouthful. Vesemir’s cock is no joke and everybody who takes it struggles at the beginning. But Vesemir trains them well.

The older Witcher laughs.

“Too long, pup?” And Geralt whines again, trying and failing to take more.

“Take your time,” Vesemir gentles him. “It’s normal after all this time. This what you get for not coming home every winter. Perhaps I should keep you this summer. Keep you on a bench in the yard, under the summer sun, until your hole is nicely gapping. I could do with a bit of entertainment and so could the trainee.”

Geralt whines again, descends a little lower on the cock in his mouth, his own cock straining against his pants and Vesemir takes pity on him. He knows Geralt is an accomplished cocksucker but his own cock bare the marks of the experimentations still made to the potions when Vesermir was taking the Trials: unless Geralt has taking up to trolls, he hasn’t been sucking something so wide and long since the last time he came to the Keep, two years ago.

“Let me help.” Vesemir pats his head until he feels Geralt let go of his frustration, then grips the white hair and starts pushing him down. He feeds his cock to his pup until Geralt’s cheeks are covered in tears and saliva and his eyes are glazed over from the pleasure of being used. Of all the pups, Geralt was always the more eager to please, happy to spend hours on his knees being feed cocks, or bend over every table in the keep. When other heads of Schools visits, Vesemir is in the habits of buttering them up with his pup’s eager mouth. But his perfect ass is reserved for the Wolf School when he’s in the Keep, with the exceptions of old friends…and probably for whoever wants it on the Path, but the Path is too hard to begrudge Geralt any pleasure he can find on it.

Geralt swallows eagerly when Vesemir comes then ruts against his boot on his orders, nuzzling into Vesemir’s hand and letting beautiful little wails of pleasure. Such a good pup, always so good for him. Vesemir kisses him, letting the satisfaction of knowing his pup is safe for the months to come curls in him, as snow stops them from leaving the Keep. He was worried last winter when Geralt was one of the Wolves who didn’t come home.

Perhaps he really should keep him for the summer. The last time was what, twenty years ago? Geralt had spent the summer without a stich of clothing, servicing the whole Keep and every visitor, Witcher, mage, elf or other, with such an evident pleasure, moaning like a one oren whore at every cock in his hole. At the beginning of autumn, at the visit of the decade from the dragons, Vesemir had tied him in the yard, face down, ass up, and drunk ale and admired while Geralt took every cock in the Keep, then Borch’s cock, when Borch was in his dragon’s form. Despite the mutations and the potions, his hole had gaped for days after that.

If Geralt wasn’t such a good Witcher on the Path, Vesemir would have kept him here all year long every year long before now.

He pats his cheek, smiles at the look of adoration he receives.

“Good, pup?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Clean my boot, then.”

Geralt obeys immediately, with little kittens licks, savouring his own spend as if it was fine liquor. If he was only a century younger, Vesemir would be hard again already.

Instead, he calls:

“Boys, come and welcome your brother!” and smiles when Lambert and Eskel spill out of the door. He was sure they were listening in, the little voyeurs. Vesemir burrows better in his chair, pours himself a drink and lets himself grow hard again slowly, as he admires Geralt being shared between the two others. It’s early in the season, no more than twenty Witchers are in the Keep right now, and a few trainees. Vesemir opens a drawer, selects a nice plug, one with a long white tail.

Tonight, Geralt will crawl into dinner with the tail in his hole and a nice gag dick in his throat and he will not being allowed outside of the dinner hall before servicing everyone, and Vesemir can’t wait to watch.


	2. Eskel

Meeting on the Path hadn’t been their plans but when Eskel and Geralt had found each other in the same small town, called there by the same contract, working together was only logical. A nest of drowners, no matter how big, didn’t really need two Witchers, but they were already there and the weather was nice. They would share the money and sleep under the stars.

The downers never had a chance under the two of them and that left the Witchers with time to hunt a substantial supper, enough pheasants for a small fest. They had salt and wine and bread in their bags and Geralt even found juniper berries for the pheasants.

It was a good day for the Path.

And now, here they were, bellies full, passing the wine between them and telling each other the latest hunts they had lived since the spring.

Little by little, they had migrated closer on the log. Geralt felt settled, like he only felt in Kaer Mohren, or after a long, long, meditation. Eskel always had this effect on him when it was just the two of them. Eskel’s hand find his neck, caresses the smaller hair, slowly.

They have all their time.

Yes, sometime it’s nice to jump on each other for how much lust burn in their blood, Eskel bending Geralt on the first appropriate surface, the burn of an insufficient preparation, but sometimes it’s good like that.

Slow.

Nice.

All the night for them, the song of a faraway mottled owl, the wine, the food, the scent of the fire.

When Geralt kneels between Eskel’s legs, he doesn’t attack his pants immediately. The night is too good to not take their time.

He lets Eskel feeds him the last bits of bread, he sucks the juice of the pheasants of his callused fingers, he lets the fire in his belly grow slowly….

Eskel is already totally hard when he finally opens his pants, his desire stroked by Geralt’s mouth around his fingers, and Geralt makes a show of licking, kissing, worshipping this cock, which was the first he took in his mouth, long ago. Eskel doesn’t force him to quicken his pace, why would he? The atmosphere is too pleasant.

Twice, Eskel comes and every time Geralt opens his mouth, letting the other admire his load on the agile tongue, letting Eskel’s fingers come and dip into the warm mess, painting his cheeks, his nose.

“Perfect,” Eskel whispers, “such a perfect mouth. You were made for cock, your mouth, your lips, they were made for that.”

Geralt rolls over, offers his ass, lets Eskel take away his pants and mewls for him, when his brother in arms opens him with just spit and his spent.

Geralt loves to get fucked, searches for every occasion, has slept with every sentient specie and wailed in pleasure under more toys than the imagination could give, but there is no one for who he opens more beautifully than for Eskel, not even Vesemir. He stifles a laugh at the memory of their first time, how Eskel was hesitant, how Geralt had fucked himself on those fingers so hard he had hurt himself. They really didn’t know what they were doing….How things have changed! Now, Eskel’s fingers seem like he was made to be speared on them, playing with his rim with a proprietary talent. His brother mounts him, like a dog mounts a bitch, his weigh on Geralt and his cock in his hole, and finally, finally, the lust burns in them too much to stay slow and gentle.

Eskel fucks him into the bedroll with a strength only a Witcher could support and Geralt comes once, twice, Eskel’s rhythm not changing as he has excellent stamina after coming two times himself. It’s too much, it’s perfect, his prostate assaulted when he’s so sensitive after orgasm, the strength of Eskel… Every knot in Geralt’s muscles is going away, letting only waves after waves of pleasure.

“That’s it”, Eskel whispers to his ear, biting the lobe.

“Just like that. Beautiful. Just like that. You missed that? People not fucking you good enough?”

“Never better than Wolves,” Geralt laughs, before a more vicious trust make him swear.

“Because they don’t see the truth,” Eskel breathes against his neck,” They see you strong and tall, and they don’t see you were made for taking cocks.” He bites against his neck, worrying the skin.

“They should see you in winter, when Vesemir breaks out the bench. When everybody can have a turn. Don’t be afraid, darling, the Wolves will always give you what you need.”

He makes him come a third time, Geralt struggling for breath, then lets himself come too. And this isn’t finished. Eskel pushes his come back into Geralt, uses it to help him push more fingers, biting his ass as he works more and more of them into him. He has to break out the oil, because it has been too long, but finally, Geralt wails his pleasure to the night sky as his brother entire fist enter him. He comes again, dry, two times, pushed to his limits and he has no more force when Eskel takes his hand away and simply uses his lax hole a last time, murmuring words about how open he is, how it’s a shame no other Wolves is there, because two cocks in this sluttly, delicious hole would be the only way to have him tight enough. And Geralt wants to roll around in the words, for all the nights he’s alone, for all the fuck he has to settle for more cocks, because no one of them are as satisfying as a Witcher’s cock.

The cleaning part is more the work of Eskel than Geralt, exhausted as he is, deliciously used. He lets his friend arranges them, accepts with gratitude the flaccid cock in his mouth, pillowing his head on Esekel’s leg and falls asleep like that, as perfectly happy as he can be out of the Keep.


	3. Mousesack

The Queen is waiting for the Witcher at the moment of his arrival, Mousesack has his orders. But right now, he doesn’t give a fuck.

Not when Geralt is so voluptuously enticing, rolling around in his bed like a big feline instead of a wolf. He had gained news scars, his friend, and if Geralt lets him, Mousesack will later use magic to make sure no one of the wounds Geralt received lately will impact his range of motions.

But later.

Now is the time to feast, because Geralt is a meal fit for a god, all muscles and coiled power and hunger. The druid has him on his belly, presenting like the bitch in heat Geralt likes to act as when he’s in trusted company and Mousesack has four fingers playing with that tight hole, savouring the sounds of pleasure of the Witcher like he’s drunk on them. Such a responsive lover, his friend.

“You’re perfect,” Mousesack purrs, pouring a little more scented oil in the cleft of Geralt’s ass.

“Making you wear pants is a crime to society,” he adds, just before biting the perfect left cheek of that perfect ass. The laugh of Geralt is muffled by the pillow, then turned to a moan at the bite.

“Are you gonna do something about my ass today,” he finally asks, “or are you fingering me until the guards drag us before the Queen?”, impatient as always.

“She would probably join”, Mousasck remarks, because he knows Calanthe, and if he never was admitted to the secret of her bedroom, he would bet every one of his magic powers that she owns a collections of strape-ons. Geralt moans again.

“Oh, you love that idea,” Mousesacks rejoices. He takes out his fingers, earning himself another order of quicker, then wipes them carelessly on the sheets and then finally, mounts Geralt in a swift, hard movement of the hips, impaling the Witcher with a strength that would have been really uncaring for a human lover. Geralt just swears, trembles, and opens more his legs in a silent ask.

Mousesack takes him hard, chasing his pleasure in the offered body with vigour and Geralt asks for more, again and again, as the druids bites hungry kisses across his shoulders.

“Should take you to her naked,” he pants and Geralt whines, “Would love to watch her bend you over a throne, fucks you like you deserve. Would probably makes you eat here out first, in front of all the court, or perhaps offers your mouth to that Jarl always sniffing her petti-coat.”

On the last word, and the last thrust, Geralt comes, untouched, and the sensations pushes Mousesack into orgasm too.

They’re still searching for breath when Geralt moves, rearranges them and starts to ride the druid’s cock. The magician has to call to chaos to not disappoint, and he’s sure someone has already reported to the Queen and he will be in trouble later.

But it’s worth it, he thinks, as he admires the Witcher taking his pleasure again, riding his cock like he’s famished for it.

It’s worth everything.


	4. Aiden. The trainees

Aiden unbounds Geralt with great care. It’s not only because he knows it’s an honour to be received in the Wolves Keep so often and even more an honour to be one of the non-Wolves Witchers who Geralt let have a go at his ass in the Keep, and not only outside on the Path, but also because he’s a decent human being, fuck, or at least he’s trying to be.

How could he do something else than be careful and tender with Geralt? He remembers how strange it had been, decades ago, when Lambert had explained about Geralt. Aiden had been horrified, thought it to be sexual slavery.

But no, it’s care and fun and lust and friendship and brotherhood.

Aiden would kill anyone threatening the Wolves, who have all become his brothers since he stroke this friendship with Lambert, almost a century ago, but he would make it extra hurtful for who dare touche Geralt, with his rare words and his gentle soul, with his ass to die for, and his mouth which is a balm against the horrors of the Path.

So, Aiden is very careful unbounding Geralt from the bale of hay in the yard, where Vesemir had bound him after lunch, as a recompense for the Wolves trainee, who had beautifully succeed at a particularly hard training exercise the last day.

Geralt makes a low inquisitive noise. His eyes are almost glazed, his face soft. He seems to be in this strange, beautiful place he tried to describe once to Aiden. The Cat caresses tenderly his white hair and Geralt makes a contented noise. He’s so warm and pliant in Aiden’s arms. The Cat Witcher feels proud that Vesemir, bound by paperwork, asked him to retrieve Geralt. Him! A Cat! The school of Witchers Vesemir never really trust. He kisses his neck and Geralt purrs. Aiden guides him, naked as the day he was born, to Geralt’s bedroom, where he has already prepared warm water, honeyed tea and nuts, and a mighty fire in the hearth. He helps Geralt bath, taking care of rinsing every trace of flaking sperm on his skin. He understands the trainee: he too loves to cover Geralt in his come. It’s almost as good as coming in his throat, or being milked by this perfect ass.

He puts some salve on his fingers, puts slowly one of them into Geralt, who opens an eye.

“Shh, just checking everything is fine. You’re very, very open. You really have been a very good pup this afternoon.”

Geralt makes a happy noise.

“Yes, pet, you were beautiful. The trainees really received a recompense fit for kings.”

Aiden takes back his fingers, pushes three, earning a moan from Geralt. The Wolf’s hole seems a little tender, but nothing torn.

Aiden would have tanned the trainee’s hides himself, if Geralt had been torn.

Aiden takes back his fingers and Geralt pouts.

“Didn’t you have enough?” The Cat laughs and Geralt just gives him puppy eyes, which shouldn’t work, Geralt being the most lethal Witcher in centuries!!

Aiden takes a glimpse of Geralt’s cock, limp and definitely done for the next hours. But coming isn’t always the goal of Geralt. Aiden guides him to the bed, fussing with the pillows and the furs until he’s sure the other is comfortable, then he crawls across Geralt’s torso.

“Open your mouth for me, pet.”

He doesn’t takes his mouth: Geralt spend the afternoon being speared on two cocks, sometimes more, he should have a reprieve….at least until dinner, because it’s a rare dinner when the White Wolf doesn’t take dessert on his knees under the Teachers’ table!

Aiden jerks off, admiring Geralt under him, thinking of the afternoon’s spectacle. He comes fast, straight on Geralt’s tongue, painting his lips, and then Geralt swallows with greed, before accepting a deep kiss from Aiden.

“Such a good pup, such a beautiful pet, always so eager for our cum,” Aiden praises, petting slowly the Wolf until Geralt succumbs to a deep sleep.

Aiden stays there, vigilant and proud.


	5. Filavandrel

For a long, long time, Filavandrel thought he would be the last king of his people. The idea poisoned his thoughts, his every moment. No matters what they did, what they tried, it seemed they would be slowly pushed to the end of the world and to extinction by hunger, poverty, pogrom and the illness’s malnutrition brings even to the elves.

The alliance with Witchers was a last tentative before guiding his people far away to die.

And it worked, beyond his wildest dreams.

Now, he rules a small kingdom in the mountains, not the most rich, or the most fertile, but a place big enough for his people to farm and live, a place where every non human can find a place and whoever searches to attack them will have to affront not only the elves but also the lethal warriors whose eyes shine gold.

Now, the boys who undergo the Trials never die, thanks to Elves’s knowledge in remedies and plants.

The only people sick enough to regret that where the mages who worked on the Trials before, but …well, Filavandrel never asked the Heads of the different Schools what exactly happened to them, but he has a good idea.

Every Witcher will find a place to rest, a plate full of food and warm welcome in Filavandrel’s own house, a house no more grand or ornate than the rest of the kingdom, but there is a Witcher who Filavandrel always see arrive with more joy than his brothers in arms. Making the star pupil of the School of the Wolf play messages bearer between the School and their allies could seem like a waste of his talent, but Geralt appreciates the easy mission between two challenging monsters.

And he appreciates what happens, once Filavandrel and him have finished the work, deciphered codes and prepared answers.

“Come here,” the leader of the Free elves will order and Geralt, impossibly sure in his steps, could find his way out of a maze without light, almost stumble in his haste. Filavandrel guides him to his own room with just a touch of his fingers resting just atop the swell of Geralt’s ass. The room is simple, with an enormous bed in it, his only real indulgence. It was a gift from Vesemir and the elf suspect it was more a gift to Geralt, who falls in this bed at every occasion, than to himself.

“I’ve been thinking of you,” He confesses, “no matters how pleasant other bed mates can be, months without you under me are too long.” Geralt left his armour hours ago, when he entered the house, and it’s a matter of minutes only to have him naked on the bed, presenting his strong back and his beautifully carved behind, his ass high in the air a clear indication of what he wants.

The elf trails in fingers down, rediscovering the totally insane numbers of muscles Geralt has. He’s pretty sure some of them are unknown to normal men! Geralt whines, unhappy.

“Sore?” the elf asks.

“No, it’s just….can we take the edge of before? It’s been weeks without a decent fuck.”

“All Witcher will always receive what they ask of me,” Filavandrel laughs and he lets go of his first plan, ropes and wax, or more he lets them go for now. His endurance is great, now that he isn’t starving, he knows he can have Geralt easily four times during the night. If Geralt wants it quick for the first time, quick it will be!

Soon, his fingers work into his hole, even easier than usual.

“No decent fuck but not a lack of fucks,” the king remarks, smiling, and Geralt grunts, pushing back, rocking against his fingers.

“More!” he asks and the king bites his hip to make him remember good things are to come to Witchers with just a tad of patience.

“You’re so tight,” he praises, “even after all those years. Is there a cock on the Continent who haven’t buried itself in you?” A particular vicious twist of his fingers has Geralt panting a curse.

“Just like that, Wolf. “ He was now pumping four fingers in and out, and leans down, licks around, making Geralt curses again.

“Stop playing, fuck me.”

“I think you should ask a little more gently.”

“Fuck, Filavandrel, put you cock in me. I want it. Stop playing and mount me. Or I will go outside naked and find one your people to do it for me.”

How could the king resist? He gives Geralt no time to handle his girth, quite important, and starts ramming into him with no finesse. The Witcher is not the only one who had missed their couplings. The leader of the elves is by no mean celibate, but Geralt is a treat, always ready to roll over no matters the hour, always hungry of it.

He wraps a hand around the white hair and uses his grip to fuck him harder. Geralt is babbling non sense in the bedding, losing his silence in pleasure.

“Such a good hole,” the elf praises, “such a good little cock sleeve. “ and Geralt sobs for more, arching under the assault; “such a good little slut, always opening his legs. I know what you need, sweet Witcher, beautiful Wolf. Don’t be afraid, let go. Good sluts can come when they want and you are the best, the most perfect slut, always so happy to beg for cock, always dripping seed and stuffing yourself full of it.”

On a sob, Geralt comes untouched, and the king isn’t far away behind. They finally kiss, the first hunger sated, the elf’s fingers probing proudly the Witcher’s hole.

“Better, “ Filavandrel asks and Geralt hums in satisfaction, a lazy smile on his lips.

“Now, are you going to tell me what you had in mind?” he finally asks after a few minutes of lazily rutting against each other and the elf starts to explain.


	6. Toruviel . Other female elves warriors.

This is a good day in the Free Elves kingdom. The autumn is only starting and the temperature is still pleasant but the colours are already so vibrant.

Toruviel chews on an apple pensively. She finished her latest rotation in the guard and she’s free for three days, she could go to the market or she could…

Her thoughts crash as she exists the women guard’s barracks. Geralt of Rivia is in front of the door, his hair still damp, his posture way more casual than usual. He’s not even wearing armour, for fucks’ sake, something he only do here and in the Witchers’s keep, and he is…well, he isn’t smiling, but he’s close.

He already saw the King, then, because he’s exulting a freshly fucked aura. She jumps right into his arms. No matters how she likes to make him beg and breaks, two things he does beautifully, there is something fun to jumping and knowing she will be caught. His strength is half the fun. 

When she thinks she hated him, she hated every Witcher, in the beginning, before she learned better the difference between the monster hunters and the humans.

The first kiss is more bite than lips and Geralt gives as much as she, as pleased as herself.

They stumble inside the barracks, someone laugh but takes out their way the bench where they would have crashed.

She pushes Geralt on her bed in the communal dorm and he goes obediently, the overgrow puppy, stretching and putting himself on display without shame. She crawls on him, opening his pants to relieve the pressure on his growing erection, but not stopping them, divesting him of his shirt, as he struggles to do the same with her pants.

Finesse is for later: she sits on his face and he goes to work, just like that, Geralt still in pants and boots, her still with one boot, her pants bundled on her ankles and her shirt still half on. The door of the dorm is still open; guards going in and out of the closest rooms, casting an eye through the door sometimes, even sending a quick salute to Geralt!

She doesn’t care: he eats out pussies like there is a potion dedicated to that in those horrible Trials of them, like he’s a hungry man and she’s his first meal in days. It’s been decades since the first time their original antagonist relationship resolved itself in a wild fuck in the stables but his tongue is still the best she knows. And she has checked a lot of them.

She rides his face hard, trusting him to stop her if it’s too much, but he only lets out soft moans, blurred against her flesh, and his hands are hard on her hips only to press himself closer. Toruviel comes, crying out, but he doesn’t stop, trusting her to stay stop the same way she trusts him. He continues, wet noises and ragging breaths the only sounds they make, and he continues until she comes a second time, squirting with such force she would be unseated without his hands.

Fuck what a mess he is, her juices covering the bottom half of his face, pupils so blown the yellow in his eyes can’t be seen anymore. He’s not even breathing hard, the bastard. She kisses him ferociously, tasting herself on him.

“Good puppy,” she praises before taking another kiss. Together, they finally tackle the problems of their clothes. When the physique of Geralt is on display, a whistle come from the door: they have attracted a bit of an audience and the three elves warriors like what they see. Toruviel doesn’t blame them: nobody is body shy in their culture, but Geralt is a world onto himself.

Geralt preens, happily offered to their gazes: Witchers culture in term of bodies is much more closer to the elves own than to human. Filavandrel is of the opinion than they should one day investigate the great library of Kaer Mohren, for something their bestiary-inclined friends could have missed who explained that, but there is always something more urgent.

Toruviel searches Geralt’s gaze, a question already on her lips. He’s a bit of slut…no, he’s an enormous slut, her Witcher friend, but that’s no reason to assume he’s always ready for everything.

And that’s how Geralt spend his rest day in the Free Elves kingdom: vigorously fucked by a short elf maiden whose name he didn’t catch, with Toruviel’s favourite strap-on, the magical metal one Geralt brought her himself from Oxenfurt twenty years ago, as Toruviel jacks him off and another elf maiden warrior uses his mouth. At a moment he loses a little track of the number of the women warriors in bed in them, because Toruviel is fucking the short one with black skin in the ass with the same strap-on used on Gerald a moment ago, and kissing another one, and that still leave too much limbs for the hands running on his skin. A mouth bites his nipple, and he groans in pleasure. A pussy with dark red hair and an inner labia piercing is just there and he obeys the untold order and starts working. Another one, he can’t see who from there, is using his cock like sex-toy, and next to his head, the one he’s pretty sure is the captain is fingering another one of the elves, covered in freckles.

Witcher’s stamina is a great thing, and Geralt even more so, and Toruviel’s warm mouth next to his ear, murmuring how they should keep him as an entertaining stud, a pretty thing to distract the warriors between patrols, how they would keep him naked in the barracks, using his cock and his mouth when they want, is exactly the type of incentive he needs to grow hard again, no matters many times they ride him, using him the same way he has seen spectacles of whores in brothels uses wooden cock strapped to some bench.

Geralt lets himself be in the moment, forgetting everything else.


	7. Rennes. Vesemir

Outside, the wind is howling with a vengeance: this will probably be the last serious tempest of the winter and it is trying its hardest to make an impression!

Inside, the Wolf School is warmed by hearths big enough to punt entire trees trunks inside. Tonight was the cook’s special pie, the one with the first borage leaves of the year, flaxseed, and the roe deer haunch marinated in grain alcohol. It’s Vesemir’s favourite and now, he’s playing Gwent with Rennes and drinking spices cider: not enough to push a Witcher to intoxication, but pretty tasty.

And, between them and the hearth, Geralt is as naked as the day he was born, wearing only his medallion and sweat, riding a gift from Cintra to the School Wolf.

Well, it’s officially to the School Wolf, but every trainee old enough to know for what his cock is, behind to piss, know it’s for Geralt. It was enchanted by Mousesack and it’s enormous and beautiful, carved in some exotic stone the Witchers don’t know, something from foreign islands, and it’s enchanted to always stay slightly warmer than a Witcher’s skin.

It’s a present fit for kings.

If Kings liked to sit across enormous stone pricks, carved with ridges, complete with enchanted-to-never-stain velvet covering some high saddle, in case Geralt is half unconscious. It’s as big as Vesemir’s forearm, and the ridges look vicious, so of course Geralt is in love with the thing, especially the different metal rings which can be used to tie him in different ways, all of them quite fun.

Tonight, he isn’t tied to the thing: his wrists are simply tied together behind his back with beautiful red silk, another ribbon on his eyes. He’s riding the magic cock slowly: he already came a bunch of time, after a long day of vicious training in the morning and being deliciously used in the hot springs in the afternoon by Lambert. Here, in the safe place of the Keep, surrounded by the Wolf School pupils and warriors, he’s mewling in pleasure, not searching to stop it in any way.

Rennes wins the next round, and Vesemir concedes with a silent toast, raising in glass to the older Witcher.

Rennes raises from his seat, opens his pants in the three steps to go to the Geralt, who immediately pushes his cheek in the hand the other put on it.

“Open, pup,” Rennes says with satisfaction in his voice. He has already spilled in Geralt’s mouth two times tonight, but Vesemir knows it: it’s simply impossible to bore of Geralt. Rennes sights in pleasure and Geralt groans, pliable, offered, delicious, as always. He looks like a young god, impaling himself in rhythm and drooling around Reenes's prickn which the other feed him roughly. Rennes caresses his throat, fascinated like everybody with the shape of his cock beneath the flesh. He contracts lightly his fingers, cutting the airflow, just a little, just enough for Geralt to whine like a bitch in heat. Vesemir admires the spectacle, breathes in the scent of lust, sex and happiness, palming lazily his own cock. The Gwent fates haven’t been with him tonight, he has spent only once tonight in Geralt, but the night is still young.


	8. Freixenet

Freixenet has been a fucking cormorant for two years and a handful of months when Geralt of Rivian breaks the spell. And everything, everything her sister tried, basing herself on old legends, to free him, was a failure, which made him think he would stay stuck like that until his death. He was thankful King Ervyll, her husband, had more brain than his delicious but way too naive sibling: when he had been sure the bird was, in fact, his brother in law, the King had sent for a Witcher.

But the Witchers were getting rarer every year and people getting killed by monsters left and right would always take precedence to a baron in the form of a fucking bird. Hence all this time Freixenet had to wait. He isn’t cross with the Witcher. As unpleasant as the experience was, children getting eaten by werewolves or whatever the Witcher fight habitually, trump his case.

Also, the Witcher is on his knees for him and Freixenet would need to be a really, really unpleasant man to not feel grateful right now. It was only a simple solicitation, something he could easily have passed as humour if the Witcher hadn’t liked it, but apparently when they hear birds can’t masturbate and men-turned-cormorants don’t reduce themselves to ladies cormorants….Apparently, this the moment Witchers offer their mouth.

Or just Geralt.

Freixenet doesn’t care: Geralt has a mouth hungrier than the most talented whore. Freixenet has his two hands in that white mane and he quickly realizes the Witcher doesn’t have a gag reflex and sees no problems getting his face fucked. Freixenet tried to act like a gentleman at the beginning, because he’s grateful, he should be on his knees for the Witcher, but this is just too good, and soon he was working himself into his throat.

From his position, he can see that Geralt is hard and, Melitete’s glorious cunt, the Witcher seems to be packing a mighty weapon! Freixenet groans and his hips thrust harder and the Witcher just takes it until his nose is playing with the curls at the base of it.

“How are you so good….” Freixenet groans, “fuck, fuck, glorious fuck, what a perfect little cocksucker.” He stops himself, words, hips, everything, as reality crashes around his ears. He just called the most dangerous man he has ever meet a cocksucker. Yeah, Geralt is on his knees for him, but people can object to that name calling.

The other had stopped sucking and two brilliant golden eyes are watching him lazily, like they dare him.

“Please, don’t bite my cock” Freixenet says and the Witcher muffles a laugh, which makes…all sort of interesting things around Freixenet’s cock. The delicious wet heat leaves his dick and despite himself, Freixenet whines.

“Let’s make a bet,” the raspy, deep voice says, “if you can find some dirty talk I haven’t heard in my years, in the time I need to make you come, I will let you fuck me once you’re hard again.” And he leans down again and takes Freixenet so deep in his throat in one go that the former cormorant shout, already raking up all ideas he can in a brain besieged by pleasure, to try to win that prize.


	9. Vesemir

If Vesemir hadn’t been there, Blaviken would have been a real clusterfuck. And Vesemir almost wasn’t there. He’s getting old and he doesn’t see the reason to walk the Path when he can be more useful in the Keep. There are a lot of younger Witchers, they can go around and kill monsters, Vesemir is more suited now to train the younger generation.

He wouldn’t be there if Eskel, who has more Chaos in his veins than some trained mages, hadn’t dream of Geralt so much and send raven after raven to Vesemir, asking for his council.

Vesemir arrived just in time in Blaviken to avoid the jaws of a impossible situation to close themselves on Geralt, Eskel two days behind him.

Now, Stregobor is dead, which isn’t a loss, but will probably means problems with Aretuza, Renfri’s men are in chains, left to the royal justice, and Renfri herself, bound and violently swearing, has been smuggled out by Eskel, with the mission to take her to Kaer Morhen. They will see later what s they can do with her. Witchers shouldn’t meddle in the affairs of men, but the idea to release her just for her to continue to go around impaling people….

A problem for another day.

The problem of today is Geralt, who is feeling terribly guilty about what could have happened. But Vesemir knows his pup, knows exactly what should be done to cleanse the guilt from Geralt’s soul.

Once they have make camp, they hunt dinner and bathe together in the nearest pond. Then Vesemir ties Geralt’s wrists to the pommel of his saddle, the younger Witcher naked save to his medallion. The night is calm, the horses grazing a little bit further away and Geralt could probably be free in ten seconds, but the moment the knot is tightened, a little of the tension in his shoulders go away.

Yes, Vesemir knows his pup.

He lets Geralt like that a moment, preparing the three hares they hunted, oiling his dagger. Little by little, Geralt lets go. After a long moment, Vesemir gets up again.

“Thirty with my hand,” he says, “and then ten with my belt.” And when Geralt goes to protest that it’s not enough, he growls “Which of us knows best what you need, pup?”, his hand heavy on Geralt’s neck and the other unwind a little more under the hand.

Vesemir strikes hard. The shame of Geralt won’t melt away in any other way. He strikes hard but he’s careful to never break skin, to choose every place of a slap, either with his hand or his belt, to be sure Geralt won’t be more than a little sore come morning, after a night of Witcher healing.

Under the harsh treatment, Geralt whines beautifully. When it’s finished, he opens his legs a little more, presenting his red, very red ass. Vesemir opens him with less care than usual, just enough to be sure there won’t pain at the penetration. The spanking was the punishment, never the sex. He takes Geralt like that, still bound to the pommel, his own pants just open against the red skin of the other bottom, biting his neck with hunger and Geralt mewls for it. Vesemir is large, long, relentless, but Geralt always wants more, hips buckling up.

“Just like that,” Vesemir whispers, “Lets everything else go. It’s been too long, isn’t it? That’s why you let them tie you into knots. Shh, just like that. Take it, pup. Just lets everything go. Just be a good little hole for me. A good little cocksleeve.”

Geralt whines harder and Vesemir grips his ass tighter.

“You like that, pup? My hard cock in your pretty, pretty hole? Don’t be anxious. I will share your Path for a few days and you won’t go without it.” And when Geralt starts to protest, Vesemir gives him a vicious roll of his hips which has the younger Wolf yelling in pleasure.

“Keep your breath, you’re gonna need it,” the older grumbles.

And needs it, Geralt does. Vesemir fucks two orgasms out of him before coming himself, and plugs him. He feeds Geralt dinner by hand, still bound, then takes him again, whispering at his ear how good Geralt is with his legs open, how Vesemir would probably makes more money if he bound him on every market place and people took turn. It won’t happen, of course, too dangerous, this is a fun time reserved for Kaer Morhen, but the idea makes Geralt’s blood burn in shame and delight. He sleeps between Vesemir’s legs, a plug in his hole and a spent cock in his mouth and the guilt…the guilt is gone in the morning.


	10. Nivellen

Geralt wasn’t the first Witcher to encounter Nivellen, once the man had been changed in his monstrous form.

Lambert had been the one, and honestly, as much as Geralt loves his brother, he’s a little surprised it didn’t end differently. Lambert wasn’t known for his patience, and this mess of dead merchants and their dead daughters, and the bruxa pretending to be a rusalka…And honestly, there were a lot of reasons for Nivellen pre-metamorphosis to find the pointy end of a Witcher’s sword, even when he would have only deserved the steel one.

But Lambert found the monster in the abandoned estate, and killed the bruxa, and then save an opportunity, because inside him, there will always subside a little boy beaten by his father, before being sold to Vesemire like cattle.

Now, Murivel and the lands around it are the safest place for children in all the Redania kingdom, because every parent knows that a child with bruises will always end in the visit of the beasts, and the secluded manor had become the happiest orphanage in the Continent, sustained by the wealth of the former brigand.

And every time a Witcher in the area, he visits, just to be sure everything is still going well.

And in the case of Geralt, because he can’t resist a tumble in the sheets with the beast. It isn’t that it’s the biggest cock he had ever taken, that one goes to Borch in his dragon form, but Nivellen isn’t human anymore, and it shows.

Larger and wider than even the most gifted Witcher, Nivellen has a cock that would made less adventurous people think about it twice, and then runs in the other direction.

But not Geralt.

No, he unlaces his trousers and spreads his legs the moment they are alone, once Vinellen and the orphanage other adults have finished giving him the latest news and when they roll over the bed, the beast’s cock is already out of its sheath, as big as a normal man’s forearm. Not a lot of human are interested in him, now that the whole mess with his treasures and the merchants ‘s daughters is done. Nivellen doesn’t have a lot of occasions.

But Geralt….Geralt is perfect and always willing to bend over. He moans for it like a whore, too, always willing, always asking for it.

Nivellen fucks him mercilessly, milking several orgasms out of him, because his own body is incapable of coming fast, no matter how Geralt makes a delicious bitch. Of all the lovers he had since becoming a monster, Geralt is the only one who took his cock entire.

Another time, the Witcher comes untouched, his prick spending itself on the cover, but it only urges Nivellen to go harder. And Geralt takes it, never complaining even if he must be terribly sensitive, no, he squirms under the strong thrusts until the beast pines him more effectively, letting him only capable of taking the intrusion. The Witcher begins to come dry, once, twice, overstimulated, his thighs shake, and it seems his greedy hole will never have enough.

When the knot starts to grow, one of Geralt’s hand gropes around behind him, trying to help the knot passes his rim, something his lover can’t do with his claws. The hole forces its way inside and Geralt screams in the pillow. Nivellen doesn’t stop, rutting harder, pushing the knot into him, until finally he comes with a roar, tying himself to the Witcher. He can’t dismount, of course, with the knot, so he rolls them over, on their side, to be sure he doesn’t crush Geralt. The other doesn’t move, floating away in the foggy pleasure of the big knot pulsing in him, filling him.

Nivellen purrs in satisfaction and waits for his knot to go down. Geralt never stays more than one night, and he has every intention to mount him till dawn.


	11. Eskel Lambert

Not every night needs to be an orgy with firework and perfumed lube dripping away from sex-swings.

Young Geralt wouldn’t have been of the same opinion, of course, as he had searched in every cock on the Continent moments of peace from his life on the Path. When he was fresh from Kaer Mohren, he had jumped on every occasion he could, on every dick he found attached to a person interested.

He had made quite a few idiotic choices, but also forged great friendship, some of them he’s still dropping their pants for, eighty years later. He had tried every sex acts he learned off, twice, slept with every specie. To muffle his screams of satisfaction, he had bitten pillows full of straws in a poor peasant’s house, and silken pillows in the most impressive palaces in the Continent, and pillows full of strange magic herbs in the towers of mages and wizards.

In Skellige, there are two sex acts inspired by him, and a sex toy with his name.

He had been Kaer Morhen’s welcome package for other Witcher’s Schools, and at least three dukes would let Witchers get away with murders for a new round with his mouth.

Young Geralt thought every orgy should have been busier than the one before, with more participants, more accessories.

But now, at one hundred, Gerart knows best.

Yes, it’s very fun to bend over for a whole elf archers group and a dragon’s cock is a feast and Geralt won’t let a good occasion go.

But sometimes, happiness is just like that: the day of training has been long and busy. Outside, rain is falling with a vengeful staccato. And inside, Geralt is on his belly on his bed, three of Eskel’s fingers playing with his ass, and Lambert’s cock stretching his jaw. The time doesn’t have meaning anymore. His body is lose, from the warm water of the bath he just took, from the good food and wine in his belly, from the insistent rubbing against his prostate. The weight of Lambert’s dick is heavy on his tongue. His brother’s hand is playing with Geralt’s hair. For all his rudeness and brashness, Lambert loves nothing better than to pet his lover and to bask in decadent pleasure.

Geralt sighs, every worry going away. Eskel adds another finger, and enough oil that the sheets will need to get burned.

“Just like that,” Lambert whispers, “just let go, pretty boy. Me and Eskel are gonna fill you good.” He guides Geralt’s head until the position is perfect, gliding down his throat as easily as Eskel’s cock parts Geralt’s hole.

“Just like that,” Lambert whispers, “ you can let go.”

And Geralt does, more easily that he has ever done for three dwarfs, two human and an elf orgy.


End file.
